


quite the keeper (of you)

by petalprose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Other, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), some good-natured bickering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24470488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petalprose/pseuds/petalprose
Summary: “All right,” says Crowley, before they can get derailed any further, “yes, youarean angel, but do you know what you also are?”“What—oh, don’t say it, Crowley—““Ahoarder,is what you are,” says Crowley.Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, light of Crowley’s life, andnotorious hoarder,scoffs with great offense. He turns his chin up just the slightest bit, back infinitesimally straighter, and says, “I do not hoard, Ipreserve.”
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 76
Collections: Promptposal, cross's portfolio





	quite the keeper (of you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apocalypsenah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalypsenah/gifts).



Inside an unassuming cottage in the South Downs, an angel and a demon kneel across from each other on the floor of their living room. Surrounded by cardboard boxes, they are locked in a heated debate, neither willing to back down. It is a debate with incredibly high stakes; it is a debate with ‘ _deep theological roots’_ ; it is a debate constantly revived between the pair.

Anthony Justajayreally Crowley, retired demon, holds a hand up to silence the angel. Aziraphale Ziraphale Fell, the angel in question, acquiesces, though not without a huff and a discontented glare.

Mouth a thin line, his hand still raised, Crowley reaches with his other hand over into the box nearest to him. Rummaging around produces a truly _cartoonish_ sequence of sounds, which Aziraphale takes great offense with: honks, crashes, toots, and horns, all distinct and inexplicably loud. It is unquestionably the work of a miracle—an extremely _petty_ miracle.

“Well?” says Aziraphale, decidedly unimpressed.

The sounds cease. Crowley pulls his hand out of the box without ceremony, but at the sight of the figurine in his hands, Aziraphale starts with enough dramatics for the both of them, eyes going wide and gasping.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, “ _Oh!_ It’s the 1567 Nativity Joseph _—“_

“’The 1567 Nativity Joseph,’ he says,” repeats Crowley, immediately attempting to convey despair with his whole body. Tristitia is not a very good look on him, he’s found over the years, but he can embody it well enough.

“—The 1567 Nativity Joseph, I thought I’d lost track of it years ago,” continues Aziraphale, ever undeterred.

“See, this is _exactly what I’m talking about,_ angel _,”_ says Crowley. “You _did_ lose track of it! What use have you got for a tiny clay figurine that’s,” here he shakes the tiny clay figurine, “ _falling apart?”_

“He wouldn’t be falling apart if you put him down,” says Aziraphale, and with a snap of his fingers, Joseph is pulled from Crowley’s hand and placed in Aziraphale’s own.

_“Him,”_ mutters Crowley mutinously, as Aziraphale gingerly sets Joseph down. The nose breaks off, succumbing to gravity. Crowley stares at it, then tears his gaze back up to look Aziraphale in the eyes. “Aziraphale.”

“Yes,” says Aziraphale. He miracles the nose back on to Joseph’s face.

“We do not have the space for every one of your knick-knacks and what-have-yous,” Crowley tells him, every bit the longsuffering partner. “I am willing to _compromise,_ because we’ve just moved in to a house that's both of our own, but you cannot possibly tell me that there is a special place in your heart for” he waves at the various boxes surrounding them, all varying sizes, “all of _this.”_

_“_ I—am an angel,” says Aziraphale, with great difficulty. Not because of any lingering ill-will toward Heaven, but because this argument has been rehashed so many times before he can practically see the script laid out in front of him. “And as an angel, it is my prerogative to—hold some measure of fondness, in my heart, for all manner of things under the sun—“

“—Well, this isn’t the sun, now, is it, this is a smart light bulb, _Alexa,_ change the light to red—“

_“_ We don’t own a smart light bulb!”

“Really? Could’ve sworn this was one,” says Crowley.

The living room slowly becomes tinted red.

Aziraphale frowns. “ _Honestly,”_ he huffs. He clears his throat and says, “Alexa, do not change the light.”

The light does not change from its already red state.

“Oh, bother. Alexa, might you please turn the light back to white? Ah, yes, thank you, there’s a dear—“

“All right,” says Crowley, before they can get derailed any further, “yes, you _are_ an angel, but do you know what you also are?”

“What—oh, don’t say it, Crowley—“ 

“A _hoarder,_ is what you are,” says Crowley.

Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, light of Crowley’s life, and _notorious hoarder,_ scoffs with great offense. He turns his chin up just the slightest bit, back infinitesimally straighter, and says, “I do not hoard, I _preserve.”_

_“_ Preserve what, the _dust?”_

_“_ I beg your pardon?”

_“_ You heard me. I would—I’d put money on the dust cloud we’re stirring up being so thick it’s managed to transcend dimensions to cling to our wings. Probably…” he waves a hand at Aziraphale’s head, “Clinging to your halo right now. Adding new depths to it. We’ll have to excavate the light back out, we will.”

“Such imagery,” says Aziraphale, dryly. “You’re being dramatic. There is no dust cloud.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Well I’m not seeing proof of it, now, am I. That there isn’t a dust cloud. If we were human, angel, I’m telling you, we’d have suffocated by now. It’s dense, don’t need to see it to _feel_ it. More layers than what you’ve got on right now.”

“You’re not seeing proof of the dust cloud.”

“No, I said, I’m not seeing proof that there isn’t a dust cloud, you know, a cloud of dust, permeating the room,”

“Well, I say that you’re not seeing proof of the dust cloud because there _is_ _no dust cloud_.”

“This is insufferable,” says Crowley, tragically unable to keep the fondness from his voice. “Right. Well. Tell you what, I’ll be swayed this once if you can manage to find the rest of that nativity set.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth as though to protest, shuts it, gives a long, considering hum, and sweeps his gaze over the chaos surrounding them.

Both angel and demon are sitting in the space between their overtly plush sofa (pushed back for this occasion) and their overtly elaborate coffee table. On the sofa, there are no boxes, but on the table are two boxes respectively labelled ‘recyclables, relics’ and ‘recyclables, reusables’. Crowley cannot, for the life of him, tell if the labels have any use, because as far as he’s seen they do not match up with the actual contents. It is the very definition of disorganized, and the same rings true for all the seven other boxes scattered between and around Crowley and his angel.

And yet.

Aziraphale eventually settles on a larger, rectangular box labelled ‘others, others’ directly in front of Crowley. He smiles triumphantly. “Ah, there we go,” he says, snapping his fingers, and the next moment he’s holding the box in both hands.

Crowley watches with mounting disbelief as Aziraphale carefully removes a whole, entire, actual, literal Nativity Scene from within the box. He balances it on his lap with one hand, transfers the empty box to the couch, and then moves the Nativity Scene to the floor, turning it such that the entrance of the manger and the characters inside it face Crowley.

“…Quaint,” says Crowley. The evening has taken on a bit of a surreal edge to it. “And you have this in your possession why.”

“The sculptor was a seer,” says Aziraphale, as though that explains anything. At Crowley’s continued incredulous silence he adds, “Take a proper look at it, dear. Notice anyone… familiar?”

“Angel, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I was alive then, too. I… Hang on.” Crowley leans and squints and says, disbelieving, “Is that _you?_ ”

In the corner of the manger is a little angel, with a lopsided little halo, little grey dots for eyes, and little gold coloured wings. Despite the wrong colours, Crowley can see Aziraphale in the way it’s depicted as wringing its hands, wings half-spread as though the little thing were ready to take flight.

He can also see himself in the serpent looped around its shoulders.

“Huh, fancy that,” he mutters, and Aziraphale beams.

“Since this is a Nativity Scene I won’t have it out as part of the rest of our décor, of course. It’s awfully singular. You wouldn’t mind if I brought it out when it’s the season for it, though, would you?”

“Eh, I can live with that. “ Crowley had weathered the apocalypse for Aziraphale, so he can handle this. Also, he is still scrutinizing the miniature rendition of his serpent self.

“I should hope so,” says Aziraphale. “You’ve chosen to live with me, so now you’ve got to put up with my ‘ancient artefacts,’ as you’ve called them.”

Crowley laughs, moving so that his legs are stretched in front of him and he’s leaning on his arms. “I suppose I should be leaving you to it,” he says. “Unless there’s anything you want me to do here?”

“Hm. No, I don’t think so, dear, but—we’ve gone on about this for quite some time now, haven’t we? Would you mind picking up some dinner for us?”

“Sure, of course. What do you want?”

“Surprise me.”

Crowley stands up, stretching. He takes a moment when he’s at the door to miracle his shoes on, tells Aziraphale he’ll be back in under an hour, then leaves.

Aziraphale waits facing the door, listening for Crowley’s footsteps. When he’s sure the demon is gone, he moves over to where Crowley had sat, tearing the tape off of the box labelled ‘others, human’ that had been to his left.

Within this box is a small locked chest, and within this chest is a ring. Aziraphale had bought it without thinking much of it at the time, had seen the silver thing and bought it on a whim. When he’d returned to the bookshop and wondered what to do with it, his first thought was to give it to Crowley, and the idea had flustered him so much he’d carefully put it away to become his future self’s problem.

Well, it’s the future, now, and it’s a future where he and Crowley are free to live together, and do whatever they wish to. What Aziraphale wishes to do can be summed up simply: he wishes to live, and to live with Crowley.

And the angel Aziraphale imagines himself gifting the ring to Crowley, pictures himself sharing his life with Crowley, and sees that it is Good.

**Author's Note:**

> title is from 'If I Go, I'm Goin' by Gregory Alan Isakov. this wouldve been longer but its almost 8pm in the 31st here but i hope you like it anyway!! i am Very Nervous


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